


Agnosthesia

by Ausp_ice



Series: So You Made A Deal [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Magic, Asexual Character, Asexual Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Fae Nines, Falling In Love, Genderfluid Nines, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Selectively Mute Connor, Shapeshifter Nines, Sign Language, but do they know it haha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:07:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25092844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ausp_ice/pseuds/Ausp_ice
Summary: It's been months since Nines left.Connor can't stop seeing him everywhere he goes.
Relationships: Connor & Gavin Reed, Connor/Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson & Connor
Series: So You Made A Deal [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798897
Comments: 28
Kudos: 75





	1. Continuance

**Author's Note:**

> _**agnosthesia** , n. the state of not knowing how you really feel about something, which forces you to sift through clues hidden in your behavior, as if you were some other person—noticing a twist of acid in your voice, an obscene amount of effort put into something trifling, or an inexplicable weight on your shoulders that makes it difficult to get out of bed._
> 
> Greetings! Here we have the second part of So You Made A Deal, or as I like to call it, the part where they dance around each other.   
> My thanks to [Ronnie Silverlake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieSilverlake/pseuds/RonnieSilverlake) for betaing!
> 
> Note: Mind the warning. Chapter 5, the last chapter, is the only one with explicit content, and it is also where the warning applies. I will provide a summary at the end of the chapter if you wish to skip it; the next part of this series deals with what comes after.
> 
> Also, have some art, as a treat:  
> 
> 
> Full view on Tumblr [here](https://ausp-ice.tumblr.com/post/622651257502498816/lunar-i-wanted-to-draw-fae-nines-for-my-symad) or Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Ausp_ice/status/1279862760977780737?s=20).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words: 1551

Connor rolls his quarter between his fingers while he types with his free hand on his tablet. 

He's in the break room of the DPD station, sitting quietly in the corner, waiting for his dad to finish up for lunch. 

"How are you doing that?"

"Doing what," Connor murmurs without thinking. And then he freezes, coin dropping out of his hand to roll towards the new arrival. 

Detective Reed. They still haven't crossed paths much in the months since… since Nines. 

"So he _can_ talk," Reed snorts, bending down to pick up the quarter. 

Connor can't help but flinch slightly at the comment. He's doing the best he can, okay?

"Ah, shit. Sorry. Didn't mean anything by it." The detective grimaces as he offers the coin to him. After a moment of hesitation, Connor holds out his hand to accept it and slip it back into his pocket. "'S nice to hear you talk though. You never do, around me."

 _Thank you,_ Connor signs. _Sorry. I just… sorry._

"Stop apologizing. 'S fine." Reed steps away, going to the other end of the room—to the coffee machine, Connor realizes. After he gets his cup and presses the button, he turns to look at Connor. "Was asking about how you were doing the coin thing and typing simultaneously. Isn't that, like, brushing your teeth and combing your hair at the same time?"

_It wasn't so bad once I got used to it. Besides, repetitive motions are easier to do mindlessly._

"Huh." He leans back on the counter. "What were you up to, anyways? On your tablet."

At that, Connor hesitates. But despite Dad's reservations, Reed has never done anything to deliberately make him uncomfortable. So, _I was writing,_ he signs. _My next novel._

Reed's eyebrows shoot up. "You're a novelist? That's cool. Don't think I've seen anything with your name on it, though. Have anything published yet?"

_I write under a pseudonym. Yes, I have a few._

Reed raises his eyebrow, clearly expecting him to elaborate. Connor shuffles a bit, fidgeting with his tablet, looking down. "Hey," Connor looks up, "don't gotta tell me if you don't wanna. Just curious." 

That's… fair. A quiet hum escapes Connor's throat. Reed turns around to deal with his coffee, leaving Connor to his thoughts. 

He opens his mouth. It's just words. Just shaping sounds. He can do it. He does it all the time. 

"A-Arkait _,_ " he says, suddenly, almost surprising himself and certainly surprising Reed, who whips his head around to see Connor. Once the first word is out, though, it's easier. "That's… my pseudonym. One thing I have published is _The Hostage."_

Reed blinks, mouth parting. _"Shit,_ really? I—I've read some of your stuff. _The Hostage_ —yeah, that was. That was really good." 

Oh. Oh, no. Connor immediately buries his face in his hands, flushing with embarrassment. 

He hears a quiet "fuck," though the vowel seemed to have completely disappeared, leaving the curse sounding instead more like "fck." Connor parts his fingers to glance at the detective, who's scratching the back of his head. "Uhhhh. You're, uh—you're Hank's kid, right? Never formally introduced myself. Gavin," he says, also tracing a signed 'G' across the scar over his nose. 

"Y-yes. Connor," he manages to squeeze out, giving the sign he and his dad came up with so long ago: his right hand held up, rolling his knuckles as he does with his coin. 

"Nice to officially meet you," Reed—Gavin? nods. "And, hey. If you're more comfortable signing, I don't mind."

Connor nods. _Maybe for now._ Though, _Hank?_ He spells out each letter, _I thought you and Dad didn't get along._

"We don't," Gavin returns dryly. "I mean—we work together on a lot of supernatural cases. I… fuck. I trust him to have my back, at least," he mutters. 

_I see._ Connor hums. _Are you working with him on the serial murder case?_

The homicide case that Dad had stressed about months ago turned out to be the start of a series of murders. Once a month—five victims so far. 

Gavin pauses. "I don't think you're supposed to know about that."

_I don't know any details. Just that Dad has been stressing about this case, and there appears to be one victim a month._

"That's—that's good, it's really…" He almost looks _haunted,_ beyond the bags of exhaustion under his eyes. "It's really shitty." 

_I hope you catch them soon._

"Yeah, I hope so too…" 

It's at this point that Dad peeks into the break room. "Hey, Con—?" As soon as he sees Gavin, his eyes narrow. "Reed."

"Anderson," Gavin returns, dripping with sarcasm. 

Connor quickly waves his hand to catch his dad's attention. Once he does, he takes a breath, "He's okay. We just talked a bit."

Dad blinks in surprise, and then squints suspiciously at Gavin—who just raises his hands innocently. Dad sighs. "Whatever. I've finished up for now, wanna grab some food?"

"Yeah," he says, standing up. He waves a farewell to Gavin as they leave. The detective tips his head and takes another sip of his coffee.

* * *

"He really didn't do anything to make you uncomfortable?" 

"No," Connor confirms, looking out the passenger window of his dad's car. "Well. Not on purpose. I didn't expect that he'd read any of my books." 

Dad makes a surprised sound at that. "He did?" He pauses, and then gives a loud snort. "I can't believe I'm learning more about his personal life from _you."_

An amused huff escapes Connor, and they lapse into silence. His dad pulls them up to a small restaurant—chosen by Connor, of course, since he knows his dad frequents that nasty Chicken Feed all too often. At least this place has some healthier options that his dad won't complain too much about. 

They head inside, bell jingling as the door opens and shuts. There aren't a lot of people here—Tuesday lunches are never really crowded—but there's enough people for there to be a general murmur of activity. 

"Welcome," a waiter greets. "Table for two?"

Connor nods, smiling politely. "Yes, please." He hasn't had much of a problem with restaurants and eateries since childhood, luckily. Just the—context of the station. Interacting with people in a… _social_ setting, without the buffer of service or a professional exchange… it's different. It's just different. People don't know anything about him, here. No expectations.

The two of them sit at a table in the corner, and Connor orders his usual, convincing his dad to take a suggestion of his, as well. 

They talk idly about random things, until Connor's eyes meet one of the other patrons of the diner. 

He freezes, but—it's not him, obviously. She's already looked away, not a hint of recognition in her eyes. Her _icy blue_ eyes, just like _his._ Just like Nines. 

Connor shakes himself, looking down at his food, gripping his fork tightly. 

"Con? You okay?"

Dad's expression is worried, as Connor sees when he looks up. "I—I just. I thought I saw him."

"Again?" Dad frowns. "Connor…"

"I know! I can't help it, okay?" Connor lifts his hands to cover his face. "It's not like that eye color is all that rare, but every time…" he sighs, putting down his hands. "I… I think I miss him," he confesses in a small mumble. 

A hand is laid on his shoulder, and he sees Dad looking at him with a conflicted expression. "Look, kid, I know you've never," he makes a vague gesture, "other than with him, but if he has the power to make deals like the one you did, he's probably classed as a being of higher power. They—" Dad sighs. "They're beyond human morality and understanding. Whatever you're feeling… I get it, okay? But you gotta move on eventually."

"Move on to what," Connor replies sharply, and then immediately regrets it, even though Dad didn't react. He curls into himself. "It's not like I want to—I felt—he made me feel… he was _nice._ Wish I could know more about him. That's all. I don't _care_ about—making a family. Having kids. And the thought of doing that… " he grimaces. 

"Connor," his dad starts.

"I can't. I can't live my entire life like that, _for_ that. But…" He covers his face again. "Then I don't know how I'll fulfill my end of the deal. I… I just don't know. I don't want to keep him waiting…"

"Hey, Connor, hey. It's okay." The hand on his shoulder moves in soothing motions. "I'm not gonna pressure you to do something you don't want to. And, well. You have time. And whatever he is, I'm sure he's immortal or something. There really aren't a lot of entities of higher power that aren't. So, well, there's time, okay? Don't stress about it."

"I can't _not,"_ Connor very nearly whines, "when I keep thinking I see him everywhere."

Dad purses his lips. "It'll get better with time. Everything does. It gets numb, at least, even if you still feel it."

Connor stills. Cole. He's thinking of Cole, for sure. It’d only been a year when Dad adopted Connor… 

With a deep breath, Connor lifts a hand to pat his dad's. "Okay," he says quietly. 

A few more moments, and then Dad lifts his hand from Connor's shoulder. They eat the rest of their food in silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, here's a tentative timeline of past events, since I shifted things around:  
> 2012 (26 years ago): Connor born  
> 2017 (21 y.a.): Cole born  
> 2021 (17 y.a.): magic revealed  
> 2023 (15 y.a.): Cole died  
> 2024 (14 y.a.): Connor adopted at 12  
> 2038: Events of SYMAD


	2. Tangential

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossing paths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words: 1275
> 
> that feel when you're too weird to realize just how weird your new friend is

Connor stands in front of a small cafe in a quiet corner of a shopping center. It's one of his favorite places to go in idle afternoons of aimless thoughts. 

He steps inside to the white noise of indistinct conversations, making his way to the bar, pulling himself up on an open stool. The barista's face lights up when she sees him. "The regular?"

Connor gives a nod, handing over his credit card. He comes often enough that most of the baristas recognize him now, and it's nice not to  _ have _ to say anything, even though he's comfortable enough here. After he gets his card back, he leans on the counter, propping his head up with his hands, staring into space and thinking about plots and possibilities. 

It's easy to lose track of time like that, and it feels like barely any time has passed when a hot mug, placed on a small plate, is pushed his way. He gives a smile to the barista and then turns his attention to his drink, starting with sipping at the top layer of foam. 

He notices someone pulling themself up onto a stool next to him. The barista greets them, "Welcome! What can I get for you today?" 

"Hello," comes a soft, neutral voice. "I have never been here before. There are… so many options." They sound awed, almost.

Connor doesn't manage to suppress his snort. "I'd recommend—" He looks up at the stranger, only to startle at the icy eyes that meet his own. They have dark, wine-red hair, cut at chin-length, dressed in a soft blue turtleneck. Their nails are black, he notices, as they hold a hand at their chin. He thinks they look younger than him, they're a lot shorter than he is. 

The stranger raises an eyebrow at him. "You'd recommend…?" 

"O-oh, right." He looks at the menu. "Sorry, you just reminded me of someone. Uh…"

"What do you have?" they ask, gesturing to his drink. 

Connor looks down. "Oh. I mean, it's. Hot chocolate."

The stranger blinks slowly, looking at his drink and back to him. "This is… a coffee shop."

"The hot chocolate is really good!" Connor defends. "They make it from scratch _. _ Also, I don't drink coffee."

They blink a few times. "Well," they say. "I suppose I'll have to try it for myself." 

Connor nods as they confirm their order with the barista. He turns back to his mug, lifting it and taking a sip, careful not to burn himself. He expects the stranger to leave it at that, letting them fall back into the bubbles of their own lives, so he's surprised when they ask, "You really come here just for the hot chocolate?" 

"Yeah. Coffee… the smell is nice, sometimes, but I don't like the flavor. Also, I neither want nor need caffeine," he huffs, "considering my own thoughts and ideas keep me up well enough on their own."

"Interesting," they murmur. They don't say anything more until their own mug is placed in front of them. They stare at it a moment, glancing at Connor, before lifting it by the handle and taking a sip. "Oh." They put down the mug. "That is hot." 

Connor snorts. "It's called  _ hot _ chocolate for a reason. I'll admit I like mine more on the side of  _ warm  _ chocolate though."

"Ha," they laugh, once. "I'll wait for it to cool down, then." 

Connor hums and takes a sip of his own. Still a little on the side of too hot. He glances at the stranger and sees them staring intently at their drink. Connor covers up a laugh at the sight with a cough. "Are you just going to stare at it until it cools down?"

They shrug. "I don't have much else to do." 

"Huh…" Connor props his head on the counter with one arm. "Say, you've never been here, right? What made you come inside?"

"I thought it might be interesting," they murmur absently. 

Connor raises an eyebrow. "Interesting?"

"Mmm." They pause for a moment. "I've… never had coffee before."

"Ah, a kindred soul," Connor says, a little more theatrically than strictly necessary. "I advise you not to start. I've only heard bad things about caffeine addiction." 

"I'll stick to hot chocolate like you, then."

"Sounds good." Connor buries an amused smile in another sip of his drink. "Probably not too much of that either, though—it's a lot of sugar."

The stranger purses their lips. "Always something. Eating things can be so troublesome."

Connor snorts. "Yeah, I've thought that quite a few times, too. That's what all that nutritionist advice is for, I guess." 

"Ha…" They turn back to their mug, brushing a hand against it. Probably to test the temperature. It seems to be fine, because they lift it up and take a sip. Their eyes widen just slightly, then, as they put it back down. "Oh. Oh, that is… that is very good." 

"Told you." He debates whether it'd be rude to tell a stranger that they have foam all over their mouth now, and falls on the side of… some discretion. He slides a napkin holder over, and they give a quiet, "ah. Thank you," before taking one and wiping away the traces. 

They sit quietly in the ambient noise of idle conversation and the clinks of ceramic to ceramic. Connor's almost done with his drink when the stranger asks, "Who did I remind you of?"

Connor starts, glancing at them. They stir their drink with a wooden stick, one elbow on the table as they prop their head up. "Sorry. Strange question. I was curious."

"No, it's…" Connor sighs. "It's okay. You remind me of him a lot, actually. We had a… transaction, I guess, but I guess I got to know him a bit in the process and now I just… I dunno. I wish I could just get to know him more, or something." He knocks back the rest of his drink. "I don't really have a chance to see him again, though. He's probably busy with whatever he does. Maybe I can see him once more, but in order for that to happen, I…" Connor buries his face in his hands. "It's complicated." 

"Oh. I see."

Connor jerks up. "Sorry, I—I didn't mean to dump my personal baggage on you, I just." He curls into himself. "Sorry." 

"It's okay," they reply lightly. "I don't mind. I was the one who asked, in any case." 

Connor purses his lips. "I should be going." He lifts himself from his stool before turning to the stranger with a hesitant smile. "It was nice talking to you—I come here a lot, maybe we'll meet again."

"Maybe," they echo. "It was nice talking to you, too." 

He debates offering his name, or asking for theirs, but… he thinks it's fine this way. A nameless acquaintance, paths intersecting just here. 

So he just gives a wave and leaves.

* * *

That night, he spends an inordinate amount of time staring at the ceiling. That stranger reminded him so much of Nines, it felt uncanny—but that isn't fair, since he's got the fae on his mind all the time these days. 

That's it, isn't it? Perception skewed by his distraction. 

He should… move on. Stop thinking about things he can't have. 

(But he knows, deep down, he'll never be able to forget.) 

There's too much to remind him. The deal, especially, is a blot in his mind, a chain on his soul. Probably literally. He can't just rob Nines of his end of the deal.

He can't, but then how…

How… 

… 

Connor slips into a fitful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter! Next one will be much longer :'D


	3. Parallel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words: 2612

Connor is starting to suspect something. Since that day at the cafe, he has found himself interacting with an inordinate number of blue-eyed individuals. 

He absentmindedly trails a path through a park, crunching on the golden-to-red leaves blanketing the pavement. The wind rustles the trees around him, the glow of afternoon light suffusing through the autumn foliage, gold flickering in the pond by the path. 

The people he's met… they're all different. A waiter in a restaurant, someone standing behind him in line to get some food, someone in the lobby of the DPD. Casual interactions. Nothing of real import. Their personalities vary—slightly, at least. Their height, gender, age. But the one thing that's the same is the eyes. 

(He hopes, and doesn't allow himself to hope. He denies. He lets himself enjoy the fleeting conversations. Unconnected. 

But,  _ are  _ they—?)

He's so caught up into his thoughts that he doesn't notice anyone else in his path until he rams into them. He's spared from falling to the ground in an ungraceful heap by a hand grasping his arm, keeping him upright. 

"Are you okay?" he hears, and he looks up to see those  _ eyes.  _ The expression is sheepish, almost, on a pale face framed by platinum locks. He thinks they might be a guy. He's tall, just a bit taller than Connor, and dressed in a sweater vest over a collared shirt. 

Oh, right. Connor was probably staring at him. He quickly straightens, and the stranger lets him go. "Sorry," Connor mumbles, immediately backing away. "Lost in my head." 

"I feel that," the stranger laughs. "I'd say I was in much the same state, before you bumped into me." He turns away slightly, gazing over the water. "The view here is quite nice, I was…" He crosses his hands behind his back. "Well, I'm not quite sure." 

Connor hums. "I like to go on walks or jogs around here, it really is nice. Have you ever been here before?"

"I don't believe so… perhaps a long time ago." 

"Huh…" Connor shuffles his feet. He should be going, it's probably weird to talk so long to a stranger. But instead, his feet carry him to stand next to him, watching the waters as the sun creeps lower to the horizon. "Have you been to the city before, then?"

"I have."

Quiet descends upon them, filled only by the murmuring waters and whispering trees. Neither of them move much. Until Connor starts, haltingly, "There's someone I met, a few months ago." The stranger's eyes flick to him, and he continues. "I keep thinking of him, somehow. People keep reminding me of him."

"Why… are you telling me this?"

Connor pauses. "You remind me of him, too."

Silence. 

"He's… way above me, that's for sure. I'm still in debt to him. Like, a real debt." Connor looks down, at the edge of the water lapping at the stones by the path. "I'm probably barely a blip to him, but I still really wish we could just… talk." He scuffs the ground with his shoe. 

"Why?" Connor looks up, and the stranger clarifies, "Why do you want to talk to him?"

Connor opens his mouth to respond, and then closes it, looking back to the dying light. "I don't know if I can put a reason to words. I've never been great at connecting with others, I…" he looks down, clasping his hands together. "When I was with him, I felt… I dunno. It was nice, though. I liked it. I miss it, maybe…" He sighs. "I wonder what he's like. What kinds of things he likes. What kind of life he lives."

The stranger looks… confused, almost, when Connor glances back at him. Before he can respond, though, Connor's phone starts ringing, and he fumbles through his pockets to pick it up. "Sorry," he tells the stranger. "My dad. Hello?"

_ "Hey, Connor. Gonna be out late today, don't think I'll make it in time for dinner." _

"Oh. That's okay. Get something to go, maybe? You better not starve yourself."

Dad sighs.  _ "Yeah, yeah, I'll feed myself." _

"Good. Is it a case?"

_ "Yeah. 'Nother homicide." _

"Oh." Connor fidgets with the edge of his sleeve. "Okay. Good luck."

_ "Thanks, kid. See ya." _

"Bye." Connor hangs up, and turns to the stranger. "I should head home. It was nice talking with you."

"Yes…" the stranger says in turn, before looking away.

Connor starts walking away, but pauses after a step. "Maybe we'll meet again," he mumbles quietly, and then he quickly leaves without waiting for a response.

* * *

The next encounter is a few days later. He's in an old bookstore, one of the few remaining in the area. He thinks some of his earlier books might be sold here, but he's too embarrassed to check. Still, it's one of the many places he frequents to keep himself out of his apartment when writing; he likes to come by and sit on the store's beanbags for hours on end. Sometimes he chats with the owner—she knows ASL, too, which is very nice. 

At some point, he looks up from his tablet to see another person sitting on a chair across from him. She—he thinks she's a she—is wearing a baggy, gray, cowl-necked sweater. Long tresses of straight black hair cascade across her shoulders as she turns a page in a book she's reading. Gold-lined glasses are perched on her nose, framing those icy eyes. 

"Oh, uh—hello," Connor starts, "I didn't see you earlier. What are you reading?" 

The stranger looks up at him, before lifting the book so Connor can see the cover.  _ Eragon.  _

Connor blinks. "Wow, that's a pretty old book… I read it a long time ago, I remember liking it." He glances back up at her face. "Do you? Like it, that is."

"It's a nice story," she says quietly. "The world has an interesting setup. Names having power… interesting."

"Do they?"

"Hmm?"

"Do names have power," Connor clarifies. "If you're—familiar with supernatural things."

"Oh. I guess I am." She closes the book, looking at him. "It depends on a number of things. The species, and the culture they come from, for instance."

Connor rests his elbows on his knees, propping his head up. "Huh."

The stranger watches him. "Humans and many other beings have mundane names, given by others. Other entities may gain some influence over them by knowing them, but it isn't much. Certain species, though, are born knowing their Name." She emphasizes the word, and Connor feels that it's  _ different. _ "One that encompasses everything they are. It can change throughout life, but knowing it grants them the ability to mold themselves into the kind of being they strive to be. It grants influence over self." She taps the book with a finger. "Anyone that knows another's Name holds power over them as well, however. The only way to escape that is to change your identity; to change your Name." 

"That sounds…" Connor sits back, sinking into the beanbag. "Scary."

The stranger gives a soft huff of a laugh. "Yes, that's why demons, fae, and other sorts use aliases. A secondary name that doesn't have the same power."

"Makes sense… I have an alias, too, actually."

"Oh?" She tilts her head. 

He lifts his tablet over his mouth. "I… write. Novels. And I use a pseudonym for publishing." 

The stranger blinks. "Fascinating." She glances around the bookstore. "Are any of your novels here?" 

Connor sinks deeper into the beanbag, tablet rising to hide his eyes, too. "I never checked." 

"... Really." 

He curls his fingers around his tablet. "Really." 

"Mm." 

He hears the sounds of shifting, the sounds of paper being flipped—she's starting to read again, he thinks. Connor stays still for a bit longer before lowering the tablet just enough to see the stranger. He's right; she's returned to reading, the book propped up on her crossed legs. 

Connor looks back down at his tablet. He looks back up. Then down. In another moment, he opens the bookstore's website and navigates to the catalog. And… yep. There he is. 

"Um," he calls softly. The stranger looks up at him, tilting her head. "I just checked. Some of my books are here, do you want to see…?"

"If you're willing."

So they trail through the shelves, Connor absently hovering a finger over the spines as they go. And eventually— 

"Here," Connor murmurs, hooking a finger at the top of a book, pulling it out carefully. It's a hardcover, one of the few made in the first print of  _ Partners.  _ He holds it out to the stranger, who doesn't hesitate to take it out of his hands.

"Thank you." She trails a finger across the title and then down the cover, lingering on the text at the bottom.

"Arkait," Connor says. "My pseudonym." 

The stranger hums. "Arkait…"

It's strange, the way hearing her say it makes him shiver. She looks at him, then, a considering look in her eyes. "It's said that the names humans choose on their own can be more representative of themselves than the one given at birth. The degree varies, though," she looks back down, fingers tracing the letters, "for instance, many transgender individuals tend to have more identity in their chosen names. Aliases differ, depending on circumstances… Do you identify with your pseudonym more than your given name?"

Connor blinks. "Well," he starts. "Hm. They're both me, but different parts of me, maybe?"

"I see…" She slides a hand under the cover and eases it open, then, eyes darting across the summary. "Interesting… I suppose I might as well take the time to read it, now…"

He didn't think this through. "Ah," he says, slightly high-pitched. "I hope you like it. I think I'll be heading out soon." He doesn't think he'll be able to take anyone reading one of his books in his presence, even if it's—… 

The stranger blinks up at him. "Oh. Alright."

Connor fidgets. "Thanks for telling me about names and things. Maybe we'll meet again?"

"Maybe."

He leaves the bookstore to the stranger burying her nose in his book. 

* * *

The next time is… different. It's overcast, and he's sitting on a bench in a quiet corner of a park as he writes. At some point, he looks away from the screen absentmindedly, only for his eyes to land on a cat some ways away. 

It has white medium-length fur that looks… incredibly soft. And clean, for one that he might have assumed was a stray, given the lack of a collar. Its paws, ears, and face are tipped with black, and its eyes are wide and icy blue. 

Connor stares. It stares back, flicking its tail. He carefully puts his tablet next to him, and then leans over, extending a hand close to the ground. An invitation. The cat stares a little longer before standing up and approaching slowly. Connor tries to keep still as it draws near and sniffs at his hand, the brief touches of its nose cool and moist. 

And then it presses its face against his hand, and Connor's nearly  _ giddy _ at how soft the fur is. He carefully draws his hand across its back, and the cat's back arches under his touch. 

It's so soft, holy shoots. Wow. He pulls his hand back forward, and the cat presses its face to his hand again. So he draws his hand down its back once more.

They do that for a bit, until Connor starts to get uncomfortable from bending down so long. He straightens to stretch his back, only for the cat to leap onto the bench. Connor starts, meeting its eyes, and then lifts his hand slightly towards it. After a pause, the cat slinks underneath, laying its paws, then its head, on his thigh. Connor slowly places his hand on the back of its head, and then slowly runs his fingers through its luxurious fur. 

The cat closes his eyes, and Connor thinks he might explode from how cute it looks like that. And then it starts  _ purring,  _ and he knows the thing has his soul. 

(Some part of him laughs a little hysterically at that.)

He's not sure how long he stays like that, running his hand across the cat. Time seems to vanish as a haze of comfort settles into his being. The repetitive motions, the purring, the soft fur, the light caress of the breeze… 

He doesn't realize he was falling asleep until he wakes up. It's almost sunset, now, and the cat is gone. But as he picks up his tablet, he hears a rustle in the trees—he turns around, and sees a bird taking off. A raven, maybe, but he can't tell now; it's already vanished into the distance. 

* * *

There are a few more brushes with blue-eyed individuals before the next proper encounter, a week or so later. He's grabbed lunch from a sandwich shop, a small store in the same shopping area as the coffee shop he frequents. There's an outdoor seating area just outside the glass walls of the storefront, populated with round metal tables, each with an umbrella, and he chooses the only empty table left as his seat.

"Do you mind if I sit here? There aren't any empty tables outside." Connor looks up, noticing first the  _ eyes,  _ then the brown hair, combed back, then the business? business-casual? attire, a black coat and gray scarf over a white dress shirt. 

"Sure," Connor agrees easily, gesturing to his table. 

"Great, thank you." He pulls out one of the chairs and sits down, placing a to-go coffee cup onto the table. 

(Connor wonders if it's hot chocolate.)

"You didn't order any food?" Connor asks. 

The stranger blinks. "Ah." He looks to the side, scratching his head sheepishly. "I didn't know what to get, so I just got a drink."

"I guess that's fair." Connor finishes a mouthful of his pasta before he asks, "Do you work nearby?" He gestures to the outfit. "You seem dressed for work." 

The stranger looks down at his outfit. "So I am. But to answer your question… I suppose I conduct my business in all sorts of places."

"Huh. So do you travel a lot?"

"I suppose."

Connor looks down, toying with his pasta. "Are you here on more business, then?"

There's a long enough pause that Connor looks up and sees the stranger frowning slightly, looking off to the side. "I'm not… sure," he finally says.

Connor stops toying with his food. "Old business?"

"I don't know. Perhaps." 

It's a long time before Connor finds something to say. But eventually, he gathers himself, takes a deep breath, and asks, in a very small voice: "Have we met?"

The stranger doesn't move. 

"Maybe more than once?"

His eyes slowly meet Connor's, blue to his own brown. 

Connor reaches a hand forward carefully, towards where the stranger is gripping his hands together on the table. "Nines…? Is that you?"

The stranger stands, suddenly, and Connor flinches back. His brows seem to furrow at Connor's reaction, but Connor can't tell what he's thinking. The stranger—Nines?—opens his mouth, but appears to struggle with saying something. Eventually: "I must go."

"Okay," Connor says almost inaudibly. "Sorry for keeping you."

The other watches him, expression inscrutable, before he turns on his heel and goes. Connor only watches him for a few moments before he looks back down at his food. He finishes it mechanically, disposing his trash in the garbage nearby, before sitting back down and pillowing his head in his arms. 

He stays there for a while, a suffocating feeling churning within him.

He shouldn't have said anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are some doodles of Nines's disguises! Open the image in another tab for fullview.  
> 
> 
> Also, I'd definitely say that both Connor and Nines were aware of each other and knew that they were aware of each other, but neither of them wanted to lift the veil - at least, Nines wasn't ready when Connor tried to :'>


	4. Fracture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rash decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words: 1413

Connor only realizes just how much Nines has been hanging around when he stops. 

Sure, a lot of people have blue eyes. But it's different. Maybe there was something drawing him to Nines before, but now that he's aware, he knows when it isn't him. 

He finds himself spiraling rapidly, one thought leading to another, tearing at each other in a growing storm, leaving him curled in a ball on his bed, wrapped around his blankets, as he is now. Why did he have to be so  _ greedy?  _ He should've taken what he had and nothing more. He's still in  _ debt,  _ for Christ's sake, he— 

Is Nines mad at him? He hasn't done anything to fulfill his end of the deal, ever since they parted so many months ago. He just went on with his life, like someone without a metaphysical noose around their neck. Thought about it, sure—but he hasn't  _ acted. _

He's always prided himself on acting without hesitation once he decides to do something. Deciding is another matter entirely—he's certainly not the best when it comes to that—but when he commits, he  _ has to do it,  _ and he needs to do so as quickly and efficiently as possible. 

He committed to give anything so his dad could live. But his dad is alive, and he hasn't given anything. It gnaws at him, even more now, amalgamating with the regret and guilt and everything else rising with every day he doesn't see Nines. 

He shouldn't have been so presumptuous. He wishes he could apologize, but now? Now, Nines isn't here. And he probably won't be. 

Maybe if he… 

Connor disentangles himself from his blankets. Maybe if he fulfills his end of the deal, it'll be okay. Maybe that's enough of an apology. After that, he can let Nines go. After that, he can make himself move on. 

But,  _ god— _ how? He can't pursue a normal partner. He  _ can't,  _ and not to mention: 'hey, I don't want kids, but can we make one single new human so a fae I made a deal with a while back can eat it? Thanks!'

Yeah, that'd go over well. Some people still fly into a rage about embryonic stem cells.

He lies there for a bit, until an idea niggles at him. 

It instantly makes his stomach churn, but—he doesn't immediately dismiss it. Instead, he sits up, frowning. 

Yes, he could… that seems like it could be… possible. Yes. Yes. Maybe. Ugh. No, he shouldn't. But—are there any better options? Surrogation—? No… He doesn't think he could afford it, not for a long time, and he's not sure if he wants to deal with the legality and morality of this whole thing while under the eye of a surrogation agency. And the surrogate.

Which leaves his original thought. He looks towards his computer. 

He needs to do some research. 

* * *

He joins his dad at work the next day. Dad notices something before they even reach the DPD station. 

"You okay, Con?"

Connor blinks, turning to his dad from where he was staring out the passenger window. He opens his mouth, but sounds don't come out. He frowns. 

"Bad day?"

"Y-y… yes. I… would say so." 

Dad puts a hand on Connor's arm. "It's okay, kid. It happens to all of us. If you ever want to tell me about it, I'm here, okay?"

"Mm," is the only sound Connor makes, as he places his free hand over his dad's.

They arrive at the station soon after. Tina and Chris greet him, and he offers them a wave. Jeffrey gives him a nod from his office, and he returns it.

For the first few hours, he sits quietly at the desk across from his dad, but he eventually signs that he's going to the break room. 

"Kay," Dad replies, giving him his best attempt at a reassuring smile. "I'll be here."

So he makes his way to the other end of the bullpen, slipping quietly into the room. Once he takes a seat, he just closes his eyes and—breathes. Settling frayed nerves, quelling the corrosive thoughts, if only for a bit. Things will turn out fine. He's gotten this far, hasn't he? 

He hears the footsteps of someone approaching, and cracks an eye open to observe them—subsequently meeting the gaze of one Gavin Reed.  _ Hello,  _ Connor signs.

"Oh, hey." Gavin quirks his mouth briefly in what might've been a smile.  _ What are you up to?  _ he signs.

_ I'm thinking. _

Gavin snorts.  _ Well, don't think yourself into a ditch. I'm gonna grab coffee.  _

The detective goes on to do as he said, only to curse at the beep of the 'empty' warning for the water. "Fucking hell. What kind of jerk doesn't refill it when it runs out? Bastard."

Connor stifles a snicker at Gavin's profanity. He's not one the curse all that much himself, but he's still amused by the excess. It seems that he wasn't as subtle as he thought, though, since Gavin turns and narrows his eyes at him. 

_ What,  _ Connor smiles innocently. 

Gavin jabs his fingers at Connor in the universal 'I've got my eyes on you' gesture. At Connor's lack of reaction, he turns back around and finishes refilling the coffee machine. Once he does that, though, he joins Connor in sitting down, a little ways off to the side. 

_ Are you going to stay here until it's completely done?  _ Connor asks.

_ Yeah. No little shit is keeping me from my coffee. _

Connor laughs breathily at that. They sit quietly while the water simmers to a boil. It isn't long before Connor asks,  _ Have you ever hooked up with anyone? _

Gavin chokes.  _ "What?" _

_ Have you ever hooked up with anyone,  _ Connor repeats, slower. 

The detective blinks, looking this way and that, like he's trying to compute what Connor's asking.  _ Did you seriously just ask me that. _

_ It's for research. I'm not familiar with the experience. _

Gavin's brows furrow.  _ For your stories?  _ Connor only shrugs, and Gavin gives him a scrutinizing look.  _ Okay, _ he signs very slowly.  _ But can't you just Google it?  _

_ It taught me more about etiquette, which is useful, I suppose. But I don't really know about the… process. Getting a hookup. _

Gavin snorts.  _ Dating apps and bars, I'd say. The apps for younger people, probably. It's probably safer, too—people are less drunk and stupid. More prepared. _

_ I see.  _

The detective gives him a long look. "This is just for your story, right?" 

_ For research,  _ Connor answers evasively. 

"Alright. If you say so. Just—" Gavin sighs, pinching his brow. "If you—just—ugh. Don't do anything stupid, okay?"

_ Got it,  _ Connor signs. 

By the look on Gavin's face, he doesn't buy it. He seems to struggle with himself before pulling out his phone. "Can we exchange numbers? So—so if you need any more info, you can just text or call me. Or if you need anything else."

Connor blinks.  _ Okay.  _ He pulls his phone from his pocket, opening it to a new contact and then handing it to Gavin. The detective takes it, before returning it with the information of one Gavin Reed filled out. 

"Do you want to—" Gavin stops when his phone buzzes, and he sees the message Connor sent.  _ Hello! This is Connor Anderson,  _ the text says. "That works too," the detective huffs. He gets up then, striding to the coffee machine—now lit with the  _ Ready  _ light. He wastes no time in making a cup. 

Gavin moves to leave before pausing at the exit of the break room. "Take care," he mutters, and then leaves. 

"I'll try," Connor replies to the empty room.

* * *

That night, he spends a long time sitting on the couch after he finishes dinner. 

This is a bad idea. He shouldn't—no, it's the efficient option. Rip it off like a band-aid, right? It can't be too hard. He'll leave his number. Offer support, maybe. He can do that. He'll say he can take it off their hands, or at least convince them to go through with it. 

Oh my god, is he really thinking about doing this?

It's fine. It's fine. Yes. 

No. He shouldn't. 

He should. It'll be fine. 

Children get born out of wedlock all the time, after all. 

Stop thinking about it. Just do it. It'll be fine.

Before his brain can get caught in another loop, he stands up and makes his way to the door, sliding his arms into his jacket. 

He calls an autotaxi. "Downtown," he says. "Brooke's Bar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Connor is definitely in a very bad anxious spiral and did not think of all the options he could have.  
> but he's doing his best.


	5. Nadir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_nadir_** , _n. the lowest point; point of greatest adversity or despair._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words: 1492
> 
> Graphic sexual assault this chapter. Other warnings and a summary are in the end notes if you wish to skip it - take care of yourself!

He starts to regret it as soon as he steps into the bar. His stomach churns, and he feels like he might hurl from sheer anxiety. 

He's literally here to take advantage of someone that's drunk enough to not pay too much attention to bad sex etiquette. Maybe he shouldn't. Maybe this is a bad idea. He can find a girl, get married, do things properly… 

The nausea worsens. No, he can't. He can't do it. Might as well get it over with. 

He's never had any alcohol, his dad's experience serving well to ward him away from it, but maybe today it'll help. It'll keep him from thinking too hard about what he's doing. 

So he makes his way to the bar, freezing like a deer in headlights at the menu and the rows of bottles across the wall. Why are there so many  _ options?  _ It's all just ethanol, poison in your body, in the end. The bartender raises an eyebrow at him. "First time here?"

"Uh. Y-yes. Do you—have anything that could, uh. Take the edge off?"

The bartender nods, and it isn't long before he's sliding a glass Connor's way—it's a bright red, with a slice of lime floating among the ice. Connor takes a sip, and scrunches his face at the taste. It's… vaguely sweet, but there's really a weird flavor to it. How can anyone  _ like  _ this? The bartender raises an eyebrow at him, but says nothing more. 

Connor knocks back the drink as quickly as he can, and before long, he starts to feel… different. Lightheaded. Is this what being tipsy is like? 

Someone climbs up next to him at some point, reeking of alcohol. A glance informs him that it's a woman, hair cascading around her in dark brown tresses as she smiles at him drunkenly. She's wearing a short black dress, the edge riding up her thighs. Her skin is pale and perfect, amber eyes highlighted by dark eyeliner. "Hey, pretty boy. Whatcha up to?"

"Not much." The words feel unwieldy in his mouth. Huh, maybe that was too much at once. His mouth feels numb, uncoordinated. "Trying to take my mind off a few things, I guess."

The woman giggles. "Tired after a long day?"

"Something like that… it's more than a problem of a single day, though." 

"I get it," she smiles sweetly. "Life is pretty stressful."

"Mmm," he hums. "What about you?" He tilts his head towards her. "What're you up to?"

"Oh, not much myself. Just looking to unwind." She stares dazedly into his eyes, blinking slowly, smiling easily. "Though I'm sure I could… find something fun tonight," she murmurs silkily, swaying, placing a hand on his thigh.

Part of him wants to shudder at the contact, but… this is his chance. He's glad for the cotton in his brain when he puts a hand over hers ( _ she's really cold, _ some distant part of his mind notes), and says, "What do you have in mind?" 

She smiles, a gentle pull at the corner of her lips, mouth closed. She turns her hand around to grab his, and pulls him up. 

His surroundings pass in a blur. Stumbling to the back door, into a dingy back alley. It's kind of nasty, but he just wants to get it over with, so he kisses the lady chastely, running his hands up her thighs. 

She giggles. "You're so cute… look into my eyes, will you?" 

Connor doesn't register the strangeness of the request, or how she no longer sounds drunk at all, until he's staring into glowing amber slits, a haze swallowing any panic his mind tries to conjure. She's grinning, canines lengthening into sharp points. 

Somehow, in the depths of his mind, he connects the dots. Cold skin, slit eyes, long fangs, hypnosis. A vampire. A tiny part of him wants to laugh—this would have all been for nothing. Vampires are sterile.

He tries to look away, but she grabs his chin. "Ah-ah-ah," she chides. "Eyes on me. You are now under my control, do you understand?" 

"Yes," his mouth moves against his will. 

"Take off your clothes, please," she requests politely, when it's anything but a request. 

He's able to look away now, but the haze doesn't fade. He peels off his pants, belt clinking in the quiet alley as he tosses it haphazardly to the floor. His hands start shaking when they move to lift his shirt, but after a moment's pause, that comes off, too. 

He wants to cover himself. He's scared, he's so scared—he meets the vampire's eyes again, and the haze pulls everything away once more. "On the ground," she orders, and he sits on the cold, dirty stone. She approaches, pressing over him, breathing deeply at his neck. "So sweet," she says. She slides a hand down, and Connor's hands twitch as she drags a hand up his dick, the sensation a spike of unwanted pleasure. "And such a lovely cock, as well." Her voice drips like tar in his mind, seeping in, staining him. 

She strokes him harder, and despite himself, his hips move with the motion. "S-s… stop…" he whispers. 

Her eyebrows lift in surprise. "You can resist me? Interesting. Well, no matter. You wanted this, didn't you?" She asks, pressing in close. "Your cock in me."

Not really. Not for the right reasons, anyways. "P-p-please," he begs. 

"Since you asked so nicely," she says, and sinks onto him. 

_ That's not what I meant,  _ he wants to say, even as a choked cry is torn from him. She immediately picks up a punishing rhythm, and Connor's body still feels too much like lead to resist her. "Ah, hn-no, no, hhg, please," he manages in between his involuntary gasping.

"Ah, you feel fantastic," she murmurs breathlessly. "Don't worry, it'll be over soon."

And then she sinks her fangs into his neck. His brain whites out at the spike of intense pleasure, and he comes, screaming into a hand suddenly clamped over his mouth, spilling into the cold wetness of the vampire's entrance. 

Things are… gone, for a while. He's just not  _ there.  _ But at some point he comes to, body aching, neck throbbing, bleeding freely. Abandoned on the ground. There's so much. The pain and the aftershocks of pleasure, the alcohol and the blood loss. 

He thinks he hears something in the background, phasing in and out of his field of awareness.  _ "—marked, shit, shit—… dammit, need to go before—…" _

He can't hold on to the words. He starts drifting, mind becoming untethered from the present, untethered from reality. 

Dad… Connor wonders if he'll be the one to find his body here. Violated and bled out. Oh, god. His shallow breath hitches. Connor knows how he took Cole's death, and that was an  _ accident. _ This… this… 

He hopes he doesn't kill his dad by dying. He wishes he could see him one more time. He wishes… he… 

He can't hold his train of thought. Everything hurts. What was he thinking about…? 

Somehow, his mind latches onto Nines. He was nice. So nice. Nothing like this. He wants to apologize. Can't make a kid if he's dead. He wishes he was here.  _ Nines. Nines… _

Something shifts, something  _ other. _ He hears a scream, and a strange, wet sound. Like something being torn apart. Someone?

"Ah, no! Mercy, please, O great Fae!  _ Agk—!"  _ A choked sound. 

The darkness in his vision is suddenly filled with a familiar blue glow, and he feels cool hands frame his face, his head being pillowed on something other than cold stone. A hum of power, a faint glow, and his pain begins to fade. "Connor. Connor, I'm so sorry. I should have been here sooner. I should have been here." 

He blinks up to see that pale blue-gray skin, those slit eyes. Familiar, familiar blue. Elegant antlers curling off the crown of his head as he cradles Connor's head in his lap. Wings cocooned around them, enclosing them in an ethereal space, isolated from the world. Connor reaches up weakly, pawing at Nines's face. "Nines? Nines. Nines."

His eyes shutter. "Yes, Connor, it is I. Forgive me." 

"Nines," Connor says again, and then he's crying, gasping, turning around to fist his hands into Nines's shirt. Nines pulls him close, pressing Connor's head against his chest, rocking him gently. "Please stay," Connor begs, "Please stay, I'm s-scared, I'm scared."

"Shhh. I'll stay. She can't hurt you anymore."

"Thank you," Connor sobs. "Thank you."

Nines nods against him. "Home or hospital?"

Home. He wants to go home. "H-home. Pl-please."

"Alright," Nines replies gently. "Do you want me to put you to sleep? I can take care of everything."

Connor isn't sure. He's not sure if he wants to lose control again so soon, but… Nines is good. He trusts him. Yes. He can trust him. He can let go.

Connor nods, and a hand is put against his forehead. In the next moment, nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other warnings: Sexual misconduct(?), mind control, attempted murder, offscreen murder of a non-major character.
> 
> Summary: Connor goes to a bar and has a drink, becoming slightly intoxicated. A woman approaches him and suggests they hook up, before bringing Connor to a back alley, where it's revealed that she's a vampire. She hypnotizes and sexually assaults him before attempting to feed from him.  
> Nines appears, then, killing the vampire before holding and comforting Connor. Connor asks Nines to stay; Nines agrees, and asks whether Connor wants to go home or to the hospital. Connor wants to go home. Nines asks if Connor wants Nines to put him to sleep; Connor agrees, and knows nothing more. 
> 
> So, when I started writing this story, I was not planning for this to happen. But this is just how the cards fell :'>  
> Things get better in the next part, I promise.
> 
> Many thanks again to [Ronnie Silverlake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieSilverlake/pseuds/RonnieSilverlake) for betaing this monstrous series and discussing ideas with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Art relevant to the series can be found on [Deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/ausp-ice/gallery?q=%23symaddbh) and [Tumblr](https://ausp-ice.tumblr.com/tagged/SYMAD).
> 
> Check me out on social media:  
> Deviantart: [Ausp-ice](https://www.deviantart.com/ausp-ice)  
> Tumblr: [@ausp-ice](https://ausp-ice.tumblr.com/)  
> Instagram: [@ausp.icium](https://www.instagram.com/ausp.icium/)  
> Twitter: [Ausp_ice](https://twitter.com/Ausp_ice) / NSFW: [Au_spice](https://twitter.com/Au_spice)
> 
> I'm also in [Detroit: New ERA](https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm) server! I have my own channel if you'd like to yell at me or just talk.


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